​Ahhhh...Christmas, the season of giving AND receiving, is drawing nigh. That glorious time of year where we point and click and hope that the UPS man delivers THE perfect gift for everyone on our gift buying list. We search this site and that one, knowing full well that there is NOTHING rich Aunt Betty needs that she can't already go out and buy herself, but, we painstakingly search anyway because it’s better to give than to receive. Since frankincense and myrrh aren't on any Top Gifts of the 2017 Christmas Season lists, I'm sure The Three Wiseman would have agreed that an Instant Pot from Amazon is an acceptable substitute.

And as you peruse each and every website, you cross your fingers hoping that the perfect gift will magically appear on your screen believing deep in your festive Christmas heart that THIS is the year you will find THE gift that knocks dear, old Aunt Betty’s socks off! Of course you know that even if your gift is a dud, Aunt Betty will still appreciate your effort because after all, it's the thought that counts right?

Unless of course you have a brutally honest kid with autism who will let you know that your thought does not count AT ALL if you didn't get the right gift. Sorry, no matter how much time you took to painstakingly find a gift for my son, if it sucks, he will tell you even though I asked him not to. At least 350 times in the car on our drive over to your house.

Every year at Christmas, on top of my normal holiday stresses...shopping, decorating, baking (ugh) I also have to add the “OMG what will he say THIS year and to who” stress! Because my son, has in fact, said the wrong thing when the gift was not the right thing. Repeatedly. To lots of people. For years.

Things like, "That's the worst gift ever" and "That was a terrible idea" and let's not forget my own personal favorite, "There isn't enough money on this gift card to buy ANYTHING". Oh. My. God. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to crawl into the Christmas tree or dunk my head in the nearest Christmas punch bowl in an attempt to hide from such brutal honesty that just came out of a kid’s mouth who is old enough to "know better”.

He does “know better”, but that doesn’t mean he still won’t let you know that your gift sucks and that you should have known better not to get him THAT gift. Yeah, such comments may not be mannerly, kind or gracious, but, damn, if it's not admiringly honest. There isn't a single one of us who haven't had to fake our way through an awful gift. And yes, we may know it's the thought that counts but that still doesn't keep us from getting in the car from grandma’s house and saying, "Did you see (insert worst gift you ever got here)? Did she honestly think I would like it?” I don't know that bashing grandma’s gift behind her back is really any worse than telling her straight up, “I'm sorry Grandma but we just don't have wall space anywhere in our house for this lovely 60x80 photo of a whale smiling. Maybe your neighbor would like it?”

Ok, fine, maybe faking it is better, but, what if you can't fake it? What if every neuron firing in your brain screams that you have to be honest ALL THE TIME, that you can't EVER lie and that even though you love Grandma and you know how very much she loves you, the gift grandma just gave you really, truly sucks. Brutal honesty sometimes is a hallmark sign of autism. This honesty is not meant to hurt your feelings, even though it may, it’s just that in the same way individuals with autism struggle to recognize facial cues and body language, they also struggle with lying to someone in order to spare their feelings. To many individuals with autism, lying is more offensive and wrong than sparing your feelings. In fact, your feelings probably don't even enter their mind, not because they don't care about you, but, because in their very literal mind, there is truth and lie, there is no fake it. The truth may hurt, but, their intention is never to hurt you.

This same kid who is “old enough to know better”, who has honesty engrained in him at a cellular level, may bash your sucky gift but they will never lie to you, they will never pretend to like you if they don’t and they will ALWAYS tell it like it is. So if they say your fruitcake is good, than hot damn, you better believe you make a good fruitcake.

I’ve decide that this year, I will continue to remind my son to be kind and be respectful, but, if he can’t, if his need to be brutally honest trumps him “being old enough to know better”, I’m not going to worry and add that stress to my list this year. I’m not going to make excuses for my son being exactly who he is. I will let you know how grateful I am that you tried and that to me, it really is the thought that counts, even though my son will never utter those words to you. His honesty is not meant to hurt you, he just really struggles NOT to tell it like it is.

This Christmas, if you are told that your gift is the wrong color, a terrible choice or that it just plain sucks, hang onto the receipt and if you are quick on your feet, blame the UPS man because I’m not hiding behind the tree or in the punch bowl this year and neither is my kid. It may be the thought that counts, but, scoring THE perfect gift for Aunt Betty and my son, well, that counts for something too. Happy shopping!

Santaphobia, an overwhelmingly, terrifying fear of Santa Claus may not be found in the DSM-V as a true phobia diagnosis, but, oh it is real. Just check out Ryan hiding behind the fake presents at Santa's faux workshop at the mall. We do not have one photo of this child sitting on Santa's lap. Not even one of those crying, screaming, reaching for Mommy photos that are so funny to look at when the kids are obnoxious, not afraid of anything, teenagers. Nope, Ryan wouldn't go anywhere near that jolly old elf. Ryan didn't care about Santa's twinkling eyes, his merry dimples or his beard as white as snow. It also didn't matter if Santa had a sack full of toys or a handful of candy canes, my boy wanted nothing to do with him....then this year at the age of 12 (yes at 12 Ryan still believes in Santa...don't judge) a small break through occurred on a cold winter's night.

We have a very cool local fire company that cruises through our township with Santa on the front of the firetruck stopping for kids to tell Santa their Christmas wishes and handing out candy canes. For the longest time, the firetrucks came right past our house which was so AWEsome! We would forego our coats and hats and run outside, camera in hands to capture the moment. While the rest of the family was running to Santa, Ryan was running from Santa....fast....upstairs...to the bathroom....where he immediately locked the door. At first, with Ryan's sensory sensitivities, I thought his terror stemmed from the occasional wail of the siren from the firetruck that let kids know Santa was on his way. After Santa was safely down the street and out of sight, I would unlock the bathroom door and find Ryan cowering on the floor hands over his ears, so it seemed like the siren fear was a plausible theory. However, the siren theory didn't explain Ryan's fear of Santa at the mall, Santa on the street corners, or Santa who visited the holiday parties at Ryan's school (which by the way, he hated....because of Santaphobia). Ryan's fear of Santa was extreme and puzzling....until he finally found the words to tell me.

Many kids, especially toddlers have a fear of Santa Claus or people in costumes, it's a pretty common fear, but I always thought it was funny that Ryan had no fear of the characters at Disney World, Chuckie Cheese or those creepy fake characters hitting you up for cash on the streets of New York City for a photo op. Ryan's fear was strictly Santa Claus. Perhaps his phobia was not Santaphobia, but, actually Pogonophobia which is a fear of beards. Mickey and Donald don't have beards, Chuckie Cheese appears to shave daily, but, Ryan has known other people that have beards and these folks' beards did not cause Ryan to run away and hide in the back of the car. The other possibility may be Hagiophobia which is the fear of saints. After all, Santa Claus is Saint Nicholas, but, since we know so few saints, it's hard to test that theory. Then I started to wonder, if maybe, Ryan hid under the Christmas tree one cold, winter's night as Dan and I watched one of our favorite adult holiday movies of the season, Bad Santa. Billy Bob Thornton as Santa Claus would strike fear in the bravest of children.

Bad Santa, is without a doubt, the most inappropriate, raunchiest, wrongest (horrible grammar, but trust me, "wrongest" is fitting) Christmas movie out there, and yes, I have to admit Dan and I watch it. Ok, fine, we own it. Ok, fine, whatever, we own Badder Santa which is even raunchier and while I'm sitting in the confessional booth, I may as well admit to rewinding some of the wrongest scenes and laughing until I cry. I know it's inappropriate, I know it's un-Christmasy, and I know there is not a Badder Santa around than Billy Bob Thornton, but, my gosh it is pee your pants funny. I promise that every time we have watched it, Dan and I made sure that the kids were busily occupied or sleeping. Which is kind of hard to believe since by the age of five, our kids could quote all of the curse words Clark Griswold rants at the end of Christmas Vacation when he receives his Jelly of the Month Club subscription. I guess a frustrated father during the holidays is acceptable in our home, but, fortunately we draw the line at drunken, cussing, fornicating Santa Claus. Maybe one night, Ryan snuck under the Christmas tree as Dan and I watched Bad Santa and heard Billy Bob Thornton dressed as Santa drop the F bomb as some innocent child sat upon his knee or maybe Ryan caught a glimpse of drunken Santa beating the stuffing out of the fake reindeer after crawling off the escalator in a drunken stupor. Or maybe, it's not Billy Bob Thornton's Santa that Ryan worries about, it's the Santa who actually puts the presents under his own tree that freaks Ryan out a bit.

As any parent knows, the holiday season can be a time of stress and madness. All the expectations that the likes of Martha Stewart, Nate Berkus and those horribly perfect, crafty moms who pin away on Pinterest, put upon us mothers are ridiculous. Trying to make the most wonderful season for children even more wonderful by baking the right cookies, making gingerbread houses that Hansel and Gretel would be jealous of, decorating the house with enough lights to make your neighbors wear sunglasses at night, and trying to deliver on the, all so important, Christmas Gift List. Christmas is after all, the most wonderful time of the year, which begs the question, why do we try and kill ourselves to make it more wonderful? I would love to blame it on Facebook and Pinterest, but sadly, I have been trying to make Christmas perfect long before social media pressed upon me the importance of such a task.

With all the holiday stress, all the holiday perfection, the one guest who never fails to show up over the Christmas holiday, completely uninvited is good old Denial. Yep, Denial constantly reminds me that Christmas time is a magical time for children and that all children feel the same way about Christmas....complete and utter JOY! With Feliz Navidad pumping out of the stereo, as I baked yet another batch of Christmas cookies that will be found in the freezer in April and tossed in the trash, Denial would yell, "Yes, sure, the lights, the decorations, the changes in routine may be difficult for a kid on the spectrum, but Christmas ONLY comes once a year, so you have to make the most of it!". It doesn't matter that even with Denial putting such notions in my head, in my heart I often wondered if all the holiday madness was too much for a boy who hates change, who has a photographic memory and remembers exactly what you did last year, so, heaven forbid if you don't remember the precise glass he drank his special Holiday Punch out of, and who loves his family, but in small doses, not everyone all at once.

Yes, Denial was there forcing mittens and a hat on a three year old boy as I pinned him down amongst the Douglas Fir at our annual "Find the Perfect Tree" outing at our local Christmas tree farm. Denial also helped me stuff my boys' flailing arms into sweaters and stiff shirts for our annual Christmas card photo begging Ryan in my best Grinch like voice (with swear words to match Billy Bob Thornton) to "just sit still for five minutes" while he yanked, tugged and wailed at his scratchy, yucky clothes for the perfect family photo (if you happen to get one of our cards, know that the picture on the card is a fallacy). Denial has sat shotgun next to me as I have dressed the kids and taken them to sit on Santa's lap at the mall, assuring Ryan that Santa is not scary and begging him to sit on his lap, just one time in order to capture another phony photo. And Denial is also there every year, including this one, when I beg Ryan for his Santa list and race around trying to fill his near empty list with things I hope he likes.

Ryan never really played with toys, not in the way a neurotypical kid does, so Christmas shopping has never been easy. Santa would end up "making" toys, and wrapping them up, just so Ryan had something to open. Most of the toys would be tossed aside once the one and only coveted electronic device or video game was opened. Even when Ryan was little, if the toy didn't beep, light up or provide him with sensory stimulation, he wasn't interested. The one exception was wooden blocks, which Ryan would scatter on the floor then roll his body all over them for sensory feedback his body was craving after tolerating another Christmas Season with Bad Santa. Of course, I did have my Good Santa moments and I tried to be a fair and equitable Santa. Santa didn't feel it was "fair" if Ryan's siblings had more gifts, more presents or more money spent on their gifts, even though the gift receiver could have cared less. Even this year, Ryan has three video games on his list and that's it. Poor Dan stood in line on Thanksgiving night (yes, the horror....we broke the "No Shopping on Thanksgiving Rule" and as evidenced by the wait time at the check out, clearly hundreds of others did too) to score Ryan an iPad Mini. A $300 item that wasn't even on Ryan's list, but Santa thought he would like one. The Mini was returned the next week when Ryan assured me he did NOT want an iPad Mini and if he got one he was selling it. Even Bad Santa knows that's a bad idea.

"Bad Santa", Dimension Films

Perhaps Ryan's Santaphobia didn't stem from an accidental viewing of Billy Bob Thornton as Bad Santa, maybe the Santa Ryan fears is the one who tries so hard to make Christmas perfect for him and his siblings that she winds up behaving like a demonic elf. Ryan loves Christmas. He loves all the treats, the traditions, the Christmas shows (especially The Grinch, ironic isn't it?) the presents and the music. What Ryan's mother needs to tell Denial is that Ryan is happy celebrating Christmas without a list of exactly 10 gifts (no more no less), a perfect Christmas tree, a perfectly candied gingerbread house, Martha would be jealous perfect cookies and a perfectly posed family on a phony Christmas card. Maybe if Mom's Atelophobia (the fear of imperfection) would subside, so would Ryan's Santaphobia.

As for this holiday season, Ryan still suffers from Santaphobia, but, he had a bit of a breakthrough this year. Although Ryan started the evening off hiding in the car while we all went and greeted Santa on the next street over (with all the housing development, Santa can no longer hit every house, you have to meet him on the corner), some progress was made. When I told, the very young, very hip, very cool Santa about Ryan's phobia, he jumped down from his perch on the fire truck, gently walked to the car and wished Ryan a Merry Christmas with an outstretched white gloved hand holding a candy cane as a peace offering. When Santa asked Ryan if he's been good, Ryan got out of his hiding spot, made his huge, trying not to smile face, and with little to no tremble in his voice, Ryan said, "Pretty good". With that, young, cool Santa high-fived my boy and walked back to his handful of tiny, waiting fans. As Santa walked away, Ryan was grinning from ear to ear, no longer trying to hide his Christmas joy. Ryan immediately scripted in his best Agnes voice from Despicable Me, "He's nice, but scary, like Santa."

Ryan then assured his worried, guilt ridden mother, I mean Santa, that his Santaphobia didn't stem from his Atelophobic mother, or his concern if he'd been naughty or nice, and he didn't see Santa as the pre-curser of Mommy losing her holiday mind. It wasn't the fear of the beard or the fear of saints. Ryan's fear came from the fact that "Santa is a stranger who creeps down your chimney, comes into your house when you are sleeping and that's just creepy." For someone like Ryan, who thinks so logically, a man dressed as a giant elf, regardless of his degree of jollyness, who breaks into your house when you are sleeping, should not be someone whose lap you sit upon, but someone you should run and hide from. So, although Denial and I may have contributed to Ryan's Dentrophobia (the fear of Christmas trees) after torturing him year after year seeking the perfect Christmas tree and I may have ruined his chances of being a model due to Fotografizophobia (the fear of having your photo taken) from all those holiday card photo shoots that went up in flames, I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with Santaphobia. Whoosh. Even though, I have provided Ryan with years of therapy material, I think I have also helped him develop phenomenal coping skills. That most certainly make me Good Santa, don't you think?

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Definition of Awe:"a mixed emotion of reverence, respect, dread and wonder inspired by authority, genius, great beauty, sublimity or might." Yep, someone should have consulted a mom before spelling AWEtis﻿m.